Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.
A/N: I was watching King Arthur the other night and was struck by Dagonet's expression when he watched Vanora sing in the tavern - of course a plot bunny came a leaping. A little thing: R&R should you be so inclined to do so.
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.
Alfred Noyes
He would hate us love, if he knew, and for all I feel for you, and all I have tried to deny the bond between us, that knowledge still hurts. You and Bors are tied by stronger things than your children or the wedding ceremony that he stubbornly refuses to take part in; you are his compassion and he is your strength, and God help me, I love you both.
I do not have Tristans' still silent grace, nor Lancelots' charm, but I have known enough women in my time to understand the difference between affection and arousal. Why did you come to me that night Vanora? Was it pity that made you wake me from troubled dreams with your soft hands and silent mouth? I hope not. If there is one thing in this world that I can cling to, it is that you came willingly, and that the tears you shed when you turned away were of sorrow and not regret.
In the cold hours of the night when I watch for danger and wait for a dawn that does not come, I remember the dip and swell of your hips and waist, the scar on your back that you never explained. You did not utter a word, even when you found your release, but how I wish that you had spoken to me - even if it was only to say my name. It is selfish to remember such things, and foolish to dream of anything other than the life into which I was pledged so long ago, but I do dream Vanora - even hardened soldiers like me dream.
We do not speak much anymore - but then we never did in the past. I watch you smile and sway as you serve the drunken soldiers, clench my fists when their coarse hands grab at your skirts. You are not mine to protect love, and despite all the blood I have shed, to spill it in your name would destroy us both.
My brothers laugh as your Bors drags you out to sing (and he is your Bors, for he belongs to you as surely as you do to him), and heckle you good naturedly for a song. Not many things can curb Galahad's youthful exuberance, nor interrupt Gawains' drunken wooing of the tavern whores, but they listen to you Vanora; they listen and they remember. There was a time long ago when there was nothing but rolling fields and sweet freedom, there was a time when we were as blameless as the sons we have slain. You shine in the firelight, your babe in your arms and your eyes alight with love, singing old songs by forgotten minstrels. That is hope, for Bors that is home, and it is with a strange bitter joy that I watch you, for your voice can even touch the heart of our reticent scout, and that is not easily done, although many have tried.
There is little happiness in this world, still less compassion, yet you love your children and farewell your lover with dry eyes and kind words. He has not noticed that your youngest son has my eyes, has he Vanora? Perhaps he never will. When I wash the blood from my sword I think of you, when I scan the battleground for Bors and fight those who would cut him down I think of you. I will bring him home safe love, and sometimes in the quiet hours of the night I wonder if you think of me too.